The Wolfsbane Brewer
by weregrrl
Summary: Red is the colour of revenge, and the sunset; the colour of puckered scars. It is the colour of one girl's whole life, after an incident leaves her living in a state of catatonic agony, trapped inside her own bitter destiny as a healer. It is the colour of her cloak - it is the colour of the blood they spilled, and she intends to return it to them.


**A/N: Okay, so I just wrote this in the last forty minutes of my boring life; not for any particular reason, just because. Well, I could write a whole saga on this chick, but I'm keeping it short for now, and you may see more of her in the future...if I feel so inclined to dig THAT deeply into the Pits of He- ah, my mind (trust me, she's actually very nice in the chaptered version. I just felt like writing angst).**

**Enjoy the seemingly random!**

* * *

_The Wolfsbane Brewer_

The scars glimmered in the mirror. They were now a pale pink, reflected back at her through the rays of blinding sunlight. She wished it would go down already. The heat burned her bare scalp; piercing through the mirage she had created in her head of common prettiness, and a simplistic life. She had almost forgotten...

_Nothing is simple. Nothing _worth it_ is simple. _

She sighed. An ache reverberated through her. She was used it it; skulking in shadows, and dashing through the pain in her broken legs with evening runs. She hated the runs. They were the worst. Tripping. Stumbling. Bleeding. All for the sake of a wish unfulfilled; a life she could no longer live. She was a brewer – never meant to leave the compound. Never meant to run. Never meant to exert herself.

_Oh, _God forbid _she exert herself. _

Never again. Not after what _he_ had done to her; her body ripped apart, and mangled beyond belief. Her magic stripped of her. Frankenstein's monster. That's how they saw her now, even her mother. She was some kind of beast to pity, and yet she was immune to her own physical pain. She refused to live in the agony of purgatory. She refused to give up; to live shackled to the filthy cauldron behind her. She refused to be pitied, or blamed for what had happened to her.

_She had only done her duty as healer. She had only tried to...but, still..._

"Because, after all, it is _your_ fault for wanting to live, and _his_ for dying," she mouthed silently, detached from the wind swirling in from the open window, and the goosebumps it elicited. After all, there was nothing left but the mirror, and the girl, and the cold stone floor – all bruised, and dirtied in their own way. And in the mirror, was reflected the image of the past, and the greatest thing she had done in her life. It was in the scars, and the bumps. You could trace it down from the side of her gaunt face, right to her heart, or from her legs upwards to her lungs; it was everywhere. It was in the glazed over eye. It was in the tear-streaked face, and the grimy fingertips, clumsily covered in ash and bits of ground ingredients. It was in the sullied beauty that just made her feel more beautiful, because it was _him_.

_And it wasn't a mistake..._

A smile flashed before her eyes, accompanied by just the ghost of a laugh.

_Blue eyes, too pure to ignore. Wisps of hair floating..._

**Blood_._**

She had done what she could when everyone else had just stood back. She would do it again in a heartbeat, even with all the rehabilitation, and shattered dreams. Even if they yelled at her, held her back – she would kick and scream and tear and bite and claw her way over to his dying body. Even if it meant dying herself this time. She would do it. The rusted pendant clinging against her chest was proof of that.

_Because it was his, and she would never take it off._

She knew now she could never be accepted for her looks. But she didn't care for men, or children, anymore, and _that_ kind of beauty was shallow. She wouldn't accept it even if she could, and she knew there was no amount of tradition, or any kind of bond that could make her want to stay a slave to her family 'trade'. She was already a slave to _him_.

_His memory._

As she pondered this, the sun finished setting, and she realised it was time to go. Her lips twitched, torn mouth stretching into a hideous approximation of a smile. Tonight she would leave her chains for the ghosts to rattle, and go to where the wolves howled for blood. Tonight she would take on the title she really wished to don – not 'Brewer', or 'Cripple', or even her name...

_She would ascend..._

She raised the heavy hood of her coat to her head, and let it drape around her face, hiding the proof of her beauty from sight. Blood red showered over her curls now; all the easier to hide the actual blood she was bound to spill.

_Shadows of another life. A picnic basket, and a sleepy nighttime kiss..._

Yes, even if it killed her this time...

_For his sake..._

Revenge.

_Revenge..._

She opened the rotted-out door, one word echoing in her mind: _Slayer_.

Tonight, they would all stop blaming the dead, and start blaming the tattered girl in the red hood. And she was perfectly fine with that. As long as they remembered what they had done.

* * *

**A/N: Ooh! Angsty! Also, the first thing I've written that actually has _anything_ to do with wolves. O.o  
**(weregrrl, you liar! You don't even like wolves, do you?!)**  
AHMAIGAD I PROMISE I DO!**

*Ahem* Anyway, aside from that blatant display of weirdosity, everything is as usual - please point out any possible mistakes if you can/want to, and/or give me advice on how to make a better story. Or comment on how much you like ducks! I dunno. 

**Hope you enjoyed, and have a great night (or morning...very early morning...too early morning. Like, 2:32AM morning.)!**

**Love,**

**Lucy~!**


End file.
